Two years have passed since the nationwide upheaval that shook the country.
In a quiet corner of the suburban cemetery, a simple granite tombstone has been erected. There is no photograph on it, only a name—**Lin Chen**, along with his birth and death dates. Below, in smaller characters, is a fragment from his unfinished poem, "Starfall":
**"The mountains echo, the other side of dreams."**
Beneath the tombstone, there are no ashes. After a long and hopeless treatment, Lin Chen's body finally stopped breathing three months ago. The doctor's final diagnosis was: death caused by severe traumatic brain injury and multiple organ failure. His remains, according to his father's wishes, have been returned to the Qinling Mountains, to the land he loved and that nurtured his songs. This tombstone is merely a symbol, a place for those unable to visit in person to pay their respects to the deceased to express their grief.
Today is Lin Chen's birthday, and also his first Qingming Festival eve since he "settled" here. A few bouquets of fresh lilies and daisies lie quietly before his tombstone.
Su Yuqing arrived. She wore a simple black business suit, her expression calm yet tinged with barely perceptible weariness. She put down the flowers and stood silently for a while. For the past two years, she had continued her investigation, exposing numerous shady dealings in other fields, becoming a respected "hard nut to crack" in the industry. But she knew that behind every report lay a difficult battle. Looking at the inscription on the tombstone, she seemed to see again the resolute young man on the rooftop. She whispered, "The road is still long, but I'm still walking."
Chen Kai also arrived, his hair seemingly even whiter. He put down the flowers, took a small memory card from his cloth bag, and carefully buried it in the soil before the tombstone. "Inside are all your songs, and… some songs written by children influenced by your story over the years." His voice was hoarse. "You can't hear them, but the mountains can, the wind can." He didn't say much, just stood there for a long time, as if listening to the non-existent echoes from the mountains.
One after another, some unfamiliar or semi-familiar faces arrived. There were artists who had suffered oppression from Star Shine Entertainment and had finally terminated their contracts to start new lives; there were musicians inspired by Lin Chen's story to persist in independent creation; and even a few "insiders" wearing masks and wishing to remain anonymous. They left flowers and hurried away, their eyes filled with complex emotions.
Most touching were the ordinary people who came spontaneously. They learned about this place through news reports, came quietly, and left a flower or a card with blessings and gratitude. The card read:
"Thank you for letting me see the light."
"Chenchen, happy birthday. May you sing freely in another world."
"I've learned your 'Mountain Questions,' and I'll sing it to my children."
There was no clamor, no slogans, only quiet remembrance and heartfelt respect. This boneless cenotaph seemed to become a spiritual coordinate, marking a collective memory of dreams, courage, and sacrifice.
Lin Jianguo arrived last. He had aged considerably, his back completely hunched, carrying a pot of homemade rice wine. He squatted before the tombstone, wiping the cold stone with his rough hands again and again, as if caressing his sleeping son's face.
"Achen..." he choked, slowly pouring the rice wine before the tombstone, "You're home now, so rest well... It's quiet in the mountains, no one will disturb you anymore..." This father, who had endured so much suffering, ultimately chose to let his son's soul return to the mountains; perhaps this was the last and first peace he could give.
As the sun sets, it casts a long shadow over the tombstone. The mourners have long since departed, leaving only the soft rustling of the bouquets in the breeze.
Before the tombstone lies an unfulfilled dream, unanswered questions, and an undying hope.
It stands there silently, like a lighthouse, not guiding those on the other side, but reminding those on this side—that someone once lived so passionately, fought so bravely.
And this path still requires those who follow to forge ahead.